Death
by Kyarorain
Summary: Ivan's gift to see the future can be either a blessing or a curse. Seeing the end of the world is just one of the downsides of his talent.


**Death**

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Well, I was in the mood for writing Ivan-centric. Ivan has a premonition and it's dark and creepy. Read and review, please! 

Ivan: Camelot owns Golden Sun...

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Nobody could take his pain away, he was suffering alone, cramped in the darkness. It wrapped around him, not like a comforting blanket, but a shroud. There was no light to see, just the inky blackness. It slithered up his nostrils, plugged up his ears, causing the world to become silent, as if he was the only one breathing on Weyard's surface, yet he scarcely dared breathe. It was suffocating him, silencing him, deafening and blinding him, wrapping him tightly and muffling him. He belonged to it and it alone. 

And despite the darkness, Ivan could clearly see. He heard. Yet he was not heard. He could not make a sound. All he could do was watch, but he was not seen. He saw people he recognised, he saw people he did not. He saw the future. His future. He saw the good times and the bad times.

The good times gave him a warm feeling and made him happy.

The bad times sent chills down his spine and made him feel sick and worried.

He saw barren, desolate wastelands, nothing but acres of dry earth and dead trees. The leaves rustled in the wind, making a dry, crackly sound. The wind was the harsh breath rattling from a dying man. It was dead. Everything was dead. He went on for miles, and saw nothing, until he came to stumble upon a skeleton half buried in the ground. A hand reached out for salvation, the mouth curved in a defeated grin, the empty sockets were hollow pits of misery. The bones were dry and white, thin and frail. He could reach out and snap one and it would make a dry, breaking sound, parting into two. Yet, he could not move, only look. A ring was fixed onto one finger, a glittering gem fixed into the gold band.

The wind howled around him, and he could not see. He could only hear. Screams roared in his head, pounding against his brain like stone hammers. Pain flooded through him, surging through his crimson blood, reminding him that he was still alive. He was bitterly cold, wishing he could be warm. The cold was everywhere. Triangles of ice reaching for the clouds. Wide areas of ice trapping those who had met an icy grave, forever entombed in its grasp. Snow swirling around, settling on his ash white skin, nestling in his blond hair.

He saw a town. He felt the heat radiating from it. A deep, flaring heat that would redden his skin and tear through to his bones, crushing every organ into dull grey ashes, which would blow away with the wind and settle down somewhere forever, his eternal resting place. Flames hungrily leaped upwards, devouring what they could, devastating houses, tearing everything apart, leaping from beam to beam, never dying out, forever going on. People ran from its path, crying out for help. A dirty faced child sat on the cold granite street and cried bitterly, tears coursing down his face. The fire would be upon him in a second and he would no longer know the cold he felt with only those small rags on, only the murderous heat of the fires.

Men on horses surged forwards, spurring their steeds on and letting out exuberant cries. They fought valiantly with swords, spears, axes. Ivan saw people fall, blood flowing from their open wounds, their faces twisted in ghastly expressions and he knew they would never get up again, as the horses ran over them and the men forgot about their comrades, thinking only of claiming their victory. They plowed on in a bloodthirsty manner, killing and fighting to live.

He found himself in a cemetery, rows of stone grey tombstones lined up neatly. Ivan was terrified, fright choking him up from inside and willing him to keep still. He was filled to the core with such intense fear, he did not feel he could move, but his legs moved of their own accord. He found himself walking along the tombstones, weaving through the rows, looking around for something, yet he did not know what. There were no flowers, the graves were cold and neglected, some overgrown with weeds. Nobody visited them anymore, they lay there for eternity, forgotten, and their spirits cried out to be remembered, but nobody heard them. They were alone, unheard, forgotten.

Ivan kneeled down and brushed away a creeper, staring at the name engraved into the granite.

Here lies Isaac, a brave warrior and son, gave up his life to protect those he loved.

His heart pounded valiantly against his ribcage, trying feebly to break through. Ivan crawled over to the next one and stared at it in horror, his pupils shrinking in their violet irises, his jaw hanging open. His mouth was so dry, so parched.

Here lies Garet, a strong and headfast warrior, beloved son and brother.

His eyes were stinging as he went to the next one, not caring as his trousers became stained with dirt, the dirt that covered the bodies of his friends.

And him.

Here lies Ivan, descendant of the Anemos.

Ivan tried to break away, to run, but something compelled him to look at the next... and the next... Mia was there too, as were Felix... Jenna... Sheba... Piers... so many names he recognised... even Feizhi... and Hama... his own sister... it was as if everybody he knew were there. Hammet and Layana were buried, they shared the same grave marker, a loving couple... his foster parents...

Everybody was dead. The whole world was dead.

Ivan got to his feet, shaking like a leaf. A dead leaf. Life had been erased from Weyard. Weyard was dead. Dead before its time. Ivan raised his hands to his face and released an ear-splitting scream, that echoed across the dead world. Nobody heard him, there was nobody to hear him, just the spirits of the dead. All he heard was his scream, echoing through his mind, and he could not stop.

His hands were stained in blood. Dark red blood.

They had killed.

They had been killed.

They killed.

People with families, people with loves in their lives, people with futures, people with something to look forwards to.

Dead. Killed.

Killed in a bloodthirsty war.

A war Ivan knew nothing of. But they had to fight in the war. Cities burned. People died. Innocents burned. The tears of a million people could not save Weyard from its fated destruction. Blood stained every corner, seeping into the ground, the only nourishment for the dead trees. The whispers in the wind were the voices of the dead, the only thing that still lived on.

Weyard was dead. Everybody was dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Ivan fell to his knees, still screaming as that single word echoed in his head. Dead. Dead. He covered his face with his hands, his eyes clenched shut, curling up in a ball and screaming, screaming.

Dead.

Bitter, salty tears coursed down his face. Tears were not enough. Everybody was dead, there was nobody to inject life back into Weyard. Weyard was stained with blood.

Dead.

Time rushed past him, tossing him about in a whirling vortex. A volcano erupted and showered the dead earth with boiling lava. The earth shook and rumbled with an almighty yawn, splitting open, numerous cracks marring the surface. Water sprang from its source and flowed over the dry, dusty land. Lightning shot down from the skies and struck dead trees, causing them to burst into flames. Rain flowed down from the heavens. Snow swirled down in soft flakes and settled upon the earth like a soft white blanket. The wind hurtled through, scattering numerous objects, casting them aside with a single gust. Hurricanes wreaked destruction upon Weyard, tearing trees out of the ground and hurling them far off.

Then everything was calm once more. Ivan sat on the shore, water lapping gently at the earth beneath his feet. The atmosphere felt different, as if it was tingling with... life. Ivan saw something in the bleak, empty earth, something that surprised him.

A single blade of grass, reaching out. A little green shoot, swaying in the wind. A sign of life.

Ivan reached out and touched the blade of grass, feeling its smoothness. And he smiled.

Even when there was death on Weyard, life would come again. And the cycle would be repeated.

Ivan awoke with a start, sweat pouring down him in glistening beads. He sighed in relief and wiped his brow, promising himself that he would let Weyard suffer no such thing as the death of mankind. Yet the worry always remained, a small part of his soul that stubbornly believed that it was fate.


End file.
